


The Prince of Sorrento

by betweentheheavesofstorm



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, The Roman Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Crossover, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 10:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14235648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweentheheavesofstorm/pseuds/betweentheheavesofstorm
Summary: If you've ever thought, "Hey, The Sirens of Surrentum isn't just the sexiest of The Roman Mysteries series, it also has a plot that would work with the characters of Hamlet" this is the fic for you.Plot from the Roman Mysteries, the characters of Hamlet...what more could you want?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a birthday gift to my best friend, but out of a sense of morbid curiosity thought I'd upload it - I've no idea if anyone's going to read it. 
> 
> (Also, somehow this is less sexual than the actual Sirens of Surrentum, even though it's about young adults and not like, eleven-year-olds. Caroline Lawrence why)

All of this would be so much simpler if Horatio just liked sailing.

He doesn’t _dislike_ it. There are definitely worse ways to pass the time. But as there are also better ways, too, he’d politely declined the invite. Hamlet could manage without him for a few hours. Presumably Rosencrantz and Guildenstern know _something_ about sailing; God knows they’ve been talking about it enough.

It’s easy enough to predict how the evening will go. They’d go and find one of Hamlet’s family’s yachts, spend hours rigging it, and by the time they got out on the water it’d be dead calm. They’d float around for another couple of hours and Hamlet would insist that he’d be able to get it to work. Adorable as it would be, Horatio suspects that being out in the blaze of Italian sunlight would make him irritable sooner rather than later.

But no. Instead he had to stay behind and discover something infinitely worse.

Horatio sits on his bed. He’s been pacing around his room – well, the guest room they’ve assigned to him – trying to figure out what the hell he’s supposed to tell Hamlet.

Theoretically, it would be straightforward. After all, the invite to this holiday came with a particular caveat, and Horatio has got exactly the information Hamlet’s after. The only problem is that he has no idea how he’s supposed to impart that information.

He shouldn’t have been poking around. Everyone’s been very welcoming – or as welcoming as a royal family can be, when you’ve known them half your life – but that doesn’t mean there aren’t private spaces. His reaction to discovering that there was a basement shouldn’t have been to explore it.

In Horatio’s defense, most basements are used for relatively normal things. Storing old furniture, wine, shit like that. Most people don’t have giant blocks of ice down there.

But it is an old building, and while it does have a modern freezer Hamlet’s always saying that they like to keep old Italian customs. Even though they’re Danish. Whatever, that’s not the point.

He’d been looking around when he found the basement door. And he wouldn’t have gone in – Horatio is _almost_ certain on this point – if he hadn’t heard something. It sounded like a child crying, and even though it was completely implausible that there could be a kid down there, it was still something he should investigate.

He’d crept down the stairs without turning the light on. (And thank god for that, he doesn’t want to imagine what might have happened if he had). He’d nearly reached the bottom of the flight when he saw the block of ice, the writhing figures atop it, and realised that it hadn’t been a child’s cries.

Horatio lies back and looks at the ceiling. However much he tries to think about something else, the image is burned into his brain. Seeing your best friend’s mum fucking her brother-in-law…that’s not the sort of thing that goes away easily. Even if your best friend invited you on this holiday to find out if his mum was fucking his uncle. And also who’s poisoning his dad. Still no new leads on that one. That might be a good thing, though. Any more revelatory information today might send Horatio over the edge.

He still hasn’t figured out a way to approach it when Hamlet returns, his emo fringe thoroughly windswept. Guildenstern and Rosencrantz aren’t in a good mood; both of them managed to fall overboard and Hamlet took such a long time sailing back to them that they were convinced he’d left them for dead.

Horatio stays quiet and listens to their sniping. After the day he’s had, it’s nice to have drama about something else.

‘How’s your day been?’ Hamlet asks, on their way down to dinner.

‘Uneventful.’ Even if he reveals all, he can’t do it now. Not in public. ‘Mostly stayed in my room, read a bit.’

‘You know you’re welcome to do what you like.’

_And look where that got me._

‘It’s fine. Trust me, making small talk with your dad is just awkward.’

Hamlet huffs. ‘You’ve known my family how long?’

‘It doesn’t mean I know what to say! He’s the king of Denmark, dude. I can’t ask him about the weather.’

Shaking his head, Hamlet strides ahead towards the dining room. Horatio lets the others fill the gap, so that he’s taking up the rear.

How many years has he spent walking after Hamlet? They’ve been friends for so long it’s difficult to remember a time when their lives didn’t converge. Even more impossible to imagine is a future that doesn’t include Hamlet. Which is especially ironic, given that at some point Hamlet will probably meet somebody nice and settle down and inherit the throne.

That might be being unrealistic, but even if he doesn’t _settle down_ Hamlet is sure to meet somebody at some point. Somebody who, instead of hopelessly pining for years, will actually have the balls to ask him out.

Horatio’s not sure how he’s going to deal with it.

There have been other crushes, of course. Hamlet’s nothing if not intimately aware of his emotions. There was the whole Ophelia thing a few years ago, before they both realised they were gay. Funny how that turned out. They’re on good terms now; occasionally accompanying each other at state functions. It drives Laertes mad.

He’s almost at the dining room, so Horatio puts his pining on hold for the meal. Everyone else is already seated. You’d think a family in such a state of turmoil wouldn’t insist on all being present at dinner, but they’re clearly clinging to some sense of tradition. Even if right now that family includes Hamlet’s uncle, Polonius and his kids, plus Guildenstern and Rosencrantz, plus Horatio.

At least the meals are never boring.

This one starts off okay. Gertrude begins by asking how the sailing went, and there’s a good ten minutes of conversation there. It’s mostly Hamlet complaining, because Rosencrantz and Guildenstern don’t do much other than agree with him, or each other. Inane as it is, it’s a nice break from Guildenstern relentlessly promoting his latest mixtape.

Horatio mostly concentrates on eating. He doesn’t have anything to contribute to the conversation and it’s very difficult to make eye contact with either Gertrude or Claudius. Uncomfortable images keep flashing unprompted into his head and he’d rather keep his dinner down.

Does anybody else know? He glances around the table. Polonius might. He and Claudius have always been close. That still doesn’t help Horatio, though. It’s not like he can go up to Polonius and ask him how long Gertrude’s been fucking her brother-in-law.

No. He’s not going to think about it. He’s going to keep eating and wait until the meal is over. Then he and Hamlet will hang out on the porch, talk about life for a while and then go to bed. It’s fast becoming a routine. Ophelia’s joined them a couple of times. She’s not bad company, actually. As long as she doesn’t bring Laertes with her.

Next to him, Hamlet stands up so quickly that he knocks into the table and makes it shake. He’s shouting, but Horatio can’t figure out about what until he sees the king, red-faced and pawing at his throat.

Chaos descends before Horatio has time to draw breath. Everyone’s standing and shouting and attendants running in and out of the room. Horatio can’t dispel a sense of numbness. The poisoning. Hamlet’s been telling him for weeks about it. That’s partly what Horatio’s meant to be doing here: figuring out who’s trying to kill the king. Not moping in his room and certainly not discovering illicit affairs.

They get lucky this time. Since the last poisoning, there have been medical staff on hand and the king is rushed out. In the awkward pause, Laertes ushers the rest of the guests through to the porch, where they can overlook the sea. He and Horatio have never gotten along, but in that moment Horatio’s grateful. The rest of them had been floundering, trying to figure out what the socially acceptable response is.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Horatio finds himself saying, to Ophelia. She doesn’t seem particularly distressed, but he needs to say it to someone _._ ‘He’s the _king_ , the doctors will sort him out.’

She nods, and glances around before adding, ‘You might want to find him. Hamlet, I mean.’

‘He’s … I don’t want to intrude.’

‘Look, you know what he’s like.’ She leans against the porch railing. ‘He’s going to be adrift right now. Somebody needs to be there for him.’

Horatio hesitates. He’s the best friend. That should mean he’s closer to Hamlet than Ophelia. But they did date, and there are things you share with a partner that you don’t with anybody else.

‘All right.’

After the coolness of the porch the inside of the villa feels oppressively warm and bright. He makes his way down an empty corridor, down to the end that’s reserved for the royal family. He’s only been in this side of the villa a couple of times and then just to Hamlet’s room. It’s not difficult to find everyone. The closer he gets, the busier the corridors are. He gets a couple of looks from staff but nobody stops him.

What’s he going to say to Hamlet? What can you say to somebody whose dad could be dying? It’s all very well to think that he’s _adrift_ , but what does that mean in literal terms?

He catches sight of Hamlet outside a door and suddenly the questions don’t seem to matter. Hamlet looks terrible, but he softens when he sees Horatio.

‘Hey,’ Horatio says, suddenly awkward and conscious of the fact that they’re surrounding to people who are definitely listening. ‘You okay?’

Hamlet shrugs. ‘Don’t really know.’

‘How is he?’

‘Stable. They, uh… it’s a different poison to last time, but he’s stable.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Yeah.’ Hamlet’s staring at his shoes.

‘You should get some rest.’

Hamlet starts to object, but Horatio keeps going. ‘If he’s stable, there’s nothing more you can do. Best not to work yourself into a state worrying. I’m sure you can see him in the morning.’

Gently, he touches Hamlet’s shoulder. ‘Come on.’ And then, turning, he picks his way through the assembled staff.

Hamlet follows, slowly. It isn’t far to his room. Horatio dithers about leaving him by himself – surely he’ll be just as untethered there – but Hamlet makes the decision for him.

‘Could you, uh, stay for a bit? Just to like, chat.’

‘Sure.’ The hallway is thankfully empty; there’s no one to see Horatio close the door behind him.

Hamlet sits on the edge of his bed. ‘I didn’t think it would affect me this much.’

‘He’s your dad.’ Horatio sits on the floor, at a right angle to the bed.

‘Yeah, but this has happened before. In some kind of callous way, I’d assume I’d get used to it.’

‘I don’t think that’s how any of this works.’

‘Mm.’ Hamlet looks up and exhales. ‘Thank you. For coming to get me.’

‘It was Ophelia’s idea,’ Horatio says, suddenly embarrassed. He should have thought of it.

‘Still a good one. Fuck, we _have_ to figure out who’s doing this. I don’t understand how they’re doing it. Getting past security like this.’

Horatio says nothing.

‘I could swear it’s Claudius. That’s the only thing that would make sense. He’s in the inner circle; he’d have any opportunity to poison my dad. That’d be why he does it in public, to clear himself of suspicion.’

The image of Claudius and Gertrude bounces back into Horatio’s brain and he has to stop himself from audibly swearing. If he told Hamlet now, that would be all the evidence he needed to start openly accusing his uncle. It’d be the cherry on top of the fucking disaster.

Of course, there’s absolutely no way he’s going to tell Hamlet now. Not in this moment. It would be too much for anyone to handle, and Hamlet – well, he feels things 110%. The last thing he needs is something else to be upset about.

‘I’m sure we’ll catch them,’ he says, instead. It’s a meaningless statement, but it sounds comforting. ‘There’s just part of the puzzle we haven’t figured out yet. We’ll get there.’

‘You’re right. We just need to _think.’_

‘But not tonight.’

‘You seriously expect me to sleep?’

‘I expect you to try.’

‘Horatio.’

‘You’re not going to be able to solve the mystery if you’re sleep deprived.’

‘I can’t sleep. There’s too much adrenaline in my system.’

‘Play some quiet music? Or open a window and listen to the sea?’

‘Is that what you do?’ Hamlet asks, unexpectedly.

‘Sometimes. It can help. Or even if you just turn the lights off and lie in bed with your eyes shut, it’s been scientifically proven to provide some rest.’

‘Fine. Okay.’

Horatio gets up to leave, uncertain if anything he’s said has helped at all. The thing with Hamlet is that you never know if he’s going to take your advice or not.

He’s almost at the door when Hamlet says, ‘Wait.’

Horatio turns. Hamlet’s got up off the bed and half-crossed the room, standing a few feet from him.

‘What?’

Hamlet hesitates. And then, instead of replying, rushes forward and pulls Horatio into a kiss.

Horatio’s body responds faster than his brain, responding enthusiastically. Then his brain kicks in that _Hamlet’s kissing him_ and he jumps backwards. There’s a beat as they both stare at each other and then Horatio leaves the room without another word.

His adrenaline is up and running now. What was Hamlet doing? God, he must be feeling new levels of crap if he’s snogging the nearest person. If he’s snogging _Horatio_. Because, no matter how good friends they are, Hamlet’s not attracted to him. It’s a sad fact Horatio’s reconciled himself to. He’s learned to be okay with it. Hamlet’s not ever going to love him back, not in the way that he wants, but that doesn’t have to be the end. They’re friends, meaning that Horatio can channel all his feelings about Hamlet into being a good friend. Hamlet must know this. He’s hyper paranoid about everything going on around him; he must have figured out the reason for Horatio’s perpetual singleness.

God, this has been a fucking bizarre day.

 

After the mayhem of the previous night, the following day is uncomfortably quiet. The king is still confined to his room, but his condition has improved. Hamlet seems to have spent all his restless energy and withdrawn into himself. He shows up late to breakfast and for once, doesn’t dominate the conversation. He doesn’t even seem to care when Rosencrantz manages to bait Laertes into an argument about whether R2-D2 would beat an Ewok in a fight.

No one seems to know what to do with themselves after breakfast. Guildenstern mumbles something about taking the yacht about again, but nobody else pays him any attention. Ophelia takes her Polaroid into the town and Laertes disappears, Horatio doesn’t know where.

Hamlet doesn’t stay in a daze for long. By the afternoon he’s already forming a plan of action.

‘The poisoner’s clearly somebody here,’ he says.

They’re down on the beach, standing among the rocks. Even though there’s no chance that they’ll be overheard, Horatio still glances around uneasily.

‘Maybe not,’ Horatio says. ‘They might just have a contact on the inside. Somebody helping them get past security.’ Even if it’s becoming increasingly more obvious that it has to be Claudius, if he tells Hamlet that it’ll lead to some kind of impulsive confrontation. Which would not help anything in the slightest.

‘We could set a trap,’ Hamlet says. It’s clear he can’t be talked down; his mind is back to running at a million miles a minute. The sea wind ruffles his fringe, and he unconsciously reaches up to adjust it. ‘Talk about how something’s poisonous, or plant some poison somewhere and sees who comes to find it.’

‘I’m not sure that’s wise.’

‘What else are we going to do?’ Hamlet demands, meeting Horatio’s eyes. Horatio’s suddenly aware of the distance between them and takes a step backwards. ‘I just can’t sit around and wait for this to happen again.’

‘We haven’t been sitting around.’

‘Then what do you call it? We haven’t found anything. We’re no further along in this investigation then we were before.’

If last night hadn’t happened, this would be where Horatio would put a steadying hand on Hamlet’s shoulder. But it did, so he doesn’t. All the comfortable parts of their friendship have been suddenly and violently shaken up. It doesn’t matter that Hamlet was just sad and lonely; it’s still taken them into new and unfamiliar territory.

If all goes well, they’ll just never talk about it. Because if they talk about it, that could lead to arguments and stress and somehow Horatio can’t picture joining Ophelia in the amicable ex club. He’s not sure he’d be able to deal with the distance it would create.

‘Fine, we can do something. But what exactly are you suggesting?’

‘We stage a conversation, or an argument.’ Hamlet sits on the nearest boulder, thinking intently. ‘Maybe an argument about cleaning products. I’m suggesting that they could be used as a poison alternative and that they should be moved.’

‘But if everyone sees or overhears the conversation, what if they are moved?’

Hamlet shakes his head. ‘No. You need to convince me that nobody would do that. That they’re clearly more competent than resorting to bleach. Then we stake out the cleaning supply cupboard and see if anyone shows up.’

It’s not a very good plan. It’s the grasping at straws of plans. But if it gives Hamlet something to do and keeps him occupied while Horatio figures out what do to with what he knows, that’s something.

‘OK. So when do we have this argument?’

 

Horatio will admit that the fake fight goes down better than expected. The most unrealistic part of it is his being able to talk Hamlet out of anything, but nobody seems to suspect anything out of the ordinary. That said, he did manage to convince Hamlet to wait a couple of days, so as to give the poisoner some time to regroup after their most recent attempt failed.

The part of the plan that he’s less thrilled about is being crammed into a closet full of cleaning equipment next to Hamlet.

They’ve already been here for twenty minutes, and so far nothing. The way that he’s crouched is making his leg cramp, there’s a mop digging into his side and he’s not missing any of the irony of being inside a literal _closet._ With Hamlet, of course, because that’s the only way this situation could get any worse.

They’ve taken the precaution of removing most of the bleach and drain cleaner, leaving just one bottle that’s filled with dish soap. It’d be unpleasant to consume, but not fatal. Just in case they don’t catch the killer.

‘I don’t think anyone’s coming,’ Horatio whispers, after another minute. His leg is really starting to hurt now, but he can’t risk stretching it out for fear of dislodging the mop.

Hamlet just shushes him. He’s got to be uncomfortable too, but his zeal is keeping him going. When he’s focused on something, there’s not a lot that comes between him and his goal.

‘How long are we going to spend here?’ Horatio asks, after another pause. He really hadn’t considered this part when they outlined the plan and now he’s starting to get hungry. Hamlet can’t be planning on missing dinner, can he?

Then, just as Horatio’s about to demand an answer, there’s a noise in the store cupboard. Somebody’s come in. He’s so surprised he nearly knocks over the mop, but manages to catch it in time.

It takes a minute for the person to come into view. At first Horatio thinks it’s just a cleaner, or somebody else with an innocent excuse – but then he sees the silk dressing gown and his blood runs cold.

It’s not Claudius. It’s not even Polonius.

It’s the king himself.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Hamlet doesn’t say anything the rest of the time they’re in the closet. He doesn’t say anything when, confident that the coast is clear, Horatio leads him out and walks him back to his room.

(The connotations don’t seem to matter now; he doubts that Hamlet’s interested in kissing anybody.)

‘Okay,’ Horatio says, sitting next to him on the bed. ‘That was. Something.’

‘He’s doing it to _himself,’_ Hamlet says. It’s the first thing he’s said, and it sounds like he’s still trying to process it. ‘He’s …’

‘I think I know why.’ This is a terrible time for bombshells, but it’s clear Hamlet needs to know. He’s going to drive himself mad otherwise, trying to figure it out.

‘What do you mean, you know?’ Hamlet looks at him, his expression wild. ‘How could you – ’

‘I saw something,’ Horatio admits. ‘A few days ago, when you were out sailing.’

Hamlet’s gone very pale. ‘What?’

‘I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t looking for them, but. Your mum, and… Claudius. They were together.’

Hamlet looks at the floor and swallows. ‘They were…and you think my dad knew?’

‘It would make sense.’ Very little of this makes sense in a rational way but this fits together.

‘I…’ and because Hamlet is always a force of nature, either a dead calm or raging tempest, he’s up and running from the room.

Horatio only hesitates a second before following. They must look mad to anyone to sees them, fleeing through the villa to the narrow path that leads down to the water’s edge.

Hamlet has a head start, but Horatio’s always been faster. A good thing too, or else he wouldn’t catch Hamlet before he reaches the waterline.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ He grabs Hamlet backwards, but not before a wave sweeps in and soaks both their shoes.

Hamlet shakes him off, roughly. ‘He’s killing himself. And you knew! Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You had enough to deal with. I didn’t know what to think.’

Hamlet’s fringe is falling in his eyes. He swipes it away angrily. ‘Were you ever going to tell me?’

‘Yeah. Of course.’ Horatio reaches out and tries to catch hold of Hamlet’s elbow, but Hamlet shakes him off.

‘Leave me alone.’

‘So you can do what? Go swimming in your clothes?’ Horatio shakes his head. ‘I’m staying here.’

Just as quickly as Hamlet’s fight response had activated, it disappears. He sinks into a crouch, oblivious to the fact that he’s standing in the shallows.

Horatio looks on, helpless. He’s been trying to work out more recently, but there’s no way he’ll be able to carry Hamlet out of the water. He’s not sure Hamlet would let him, either. He’s just going to have to do what he’s been failing to do so far and say something that will get through to him.

‘Hey,’ he says, crouching down to mirror Hamlet’s stance. The water soaks the rest of his jeans, but he ignores it. ‘Just breathe, okay?’

Hamlet gives no sign of having heard.

‘It’s fucked up. I know. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be you right now. But if there’s something we can take out of this, at least we can help him.’

Hamlet looks up, locking eyes with Horatio.

Encouraged, Horatio continues, ‘We can save him, now. I mean yeah, it’s not exactly ideal, and it’s about to get a whole lot messier, but now we know who’s doing it he’s not going to die.’

Very slowly, Hamlet exhales. And then – it’s unclear whether he loses his balance and needs someone to steady him – but he’s holding onto Horatio, hugging him, like he’s a buoyancy aid.

‘It’s going to be okay,’ Horatio mutters. He’s not sure how much he believes it, but it’s what Hamlet needs to hear right now. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

 

As it turns out, _okay_ isn’t quite the right word. He helps Hamlet back to the villa and leaves him to get changed into dry clothes. Horatio makes it to his own room without anyone spotting him, which is a relief. All the way back he’d been trying to think of ways to explain why his jeans were totally soaked without sounding like a complete idiot or admitting that Hamlet was practically on the verge of drowning himself.

The Danish royal family is so god damn dramatic.

Once he’s changed, he takes a minute to watch the sea out the window and try and figure out where the hell they go from here. Fucking hell, he hadn’t expected Hamlet’s ridiculous plan to actually _work._ The way he’d seen it, they would have spent forty minutes getting steadily more cramped in the closet and Hamlet would have relented and they’d been able to call it quits. They’d have emerged none the wiser and it would all be fine.

No. Fuck, that’s a terrible thing to think. It’s _good_ that they know who the poisoner is. It’s like he said; now they can stop it. And it means Claudius isn’t an attempted murderer. Still, Hamlet must feel pretty damn terrible right now. Finding out that your dad is suicidal because your mum’s cheating… that’s the most disturbing combination of circumstances.

He turns away from the window. There isn’t any tidy way to resolve this. He’s got to make sure Hamlet doesn’t march up to Claudius and start making a scene. That’s not going to help anything. But unless they tell someone that it’s the king poisoning himself and to keep a watch on him nothing is going to change.

Horatio’s head is starting to hurt. This is way too much for one person to be processing. And it’s not like he can troubleshoot theories with Hamlet – he needs to invest more energy in making sure Hamlet doesn’t do anything colossally stupid.

And, speaking of Hamlet, he should probably go and check that he’s not started doing anything idiotic after getting changed. Looking out for him is turning into a full-time job. It would be significantly easier to handle if Horatio could just get his mind out of the gutter and stop pining already.

He needn’t have worried. When Horatio gets to Hamlet’s room, it’s to find the prince pacing impatiently, as though waiting for him.

‘You okay?’ Horatio asks, closing the door behind him. He’s spent an uncomfortable amount of time in Hamlet’s room recently.

‘Yeah. Fine.’ Hamlet looks like absolute crap, but Horatio doesn’t point it out.

 _I’m impressed you waited for me_ , Horatio almost says. He catches himself in time. That wouldn’t be helpful either.

‘What are you thinking?’ he says, instead. That’s good. Neutral.

‘I don’t know. And I don’t care what you say; Claudius is still guilty. This wouldn’t be happening if he - ’ and he cuts off, avoiding the fact that his mother’s equally complicit.

‘Maybe that’s a place to start,’ Horatio suggests.

‘What?’

‘Your mum. Maybe you should speak to her.’

‘And say what? _Can you stop fucking your brother that’s basically incest?’_ ’

Horatio pauses. ‘I was thinking you should tell her what your dad’s doing. If she knew – ’

‘She might stop,’ Hamlet finishes.

‘Well, yes. And if _she_ speaks to _him,_ maybe we can resolve this without, you know, drawing swords.’

‘I hate him,’ Hamlet says. It’s unclear if he means his father or Claudius.

‘I know. But we have to be sensible about this.’

‘Why? Nobody else is.’ Hamlet sighs, frustrated. ‘Thanks, though.’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘You’re being a voice of reason. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Right. The best friend stuff. The fact that he’s always there for Hamlet in a chill, totally platonic capacity.

Horatio shrugs. ‘What else am I going to do? Listen to Guildenstern’s mixtape?’

The edges of Hamlet’s mouth twitch. ‘I hear his latest one is quite good.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘He did.’

‘Of course.’

Hamlet shifts. ‘And I’ve been meaning to say, I’m sorry about the other night.’

Horatio’s insides clench. They weren’t supposed to every mention this again. That was the unwritten agreement. That was the only logical outcome of the situation. He was going to keep on repressing and Hamlet would continue on, at least semi-oblivious.

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Horatio mumbles, trying not to sound as panicked as he feels.

‘No, I do. It was shitty of me, and crossed boundaries, and whatever. I was upset, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.’

‘Cool.’ _Thanks for reminding me._

‘Are we good?’

In the end, it doesn’t change anything. He should be thankful for that, at least. It could have fucked up their whole friendship. If anything good comes out of this whole fuckup of a family tragedy, at least Hamlet’s still his best friend.

‘Yeah, we’re good.’

Hamlet takes a shallow breath, and stands up. ‘Okay. I’m going to talk to my mum.’

‘Are you sure?’ At least half of Hamlet’s personality is defined by being impulsive. Even if Horatio can’t see any other way out of this situation, he’s still not sure Hamlet’s ready.

‘I can’t sit around. As you said, it’s good. It means my dad will be okay.’

‘If you’re certain.’ Horatio rises too. ‘I’ll – be in my room, I guess.’

There are other things he should say, more supportive things, something to remind Hamlet to keep his temper, but none come to mind. He just nods in response, and leaves the room.


	3. Chapter 3

That evening plays out like some kind of Greek tragedy. Hamlet gets angry with Gertrude and then they both start crying, then they both go and talk to the king and there’s more crying all round and then more confrontation with Claudius and then Polonius manages to get involved somehow.

Horatio manages to stay out of most of it. It’s a difficult balance, being there for Hamlet and not intruding where he’s not wanted. Ophelia runs an informal ping-pong tournament to keep everyone who isn’t the royal family occupied. Horatio loses the semi-final to Laertes, who for once is managing to not be a dick. He’s much nicer during a crisis than he’s ever been before.

By the next weekend, things have calmed down a bit. Claudius has left for Denmark and Gertrude is spending a lot more time with her husband. It’s unclear whether the king has forgiven her or not, but there’s definite communication happening.

Hamlet seems okay. Well, as okay as he’s going to be under the circumstances. Horatio gets the impression that Hamlet finds it easier to cope when stuff’s actually happening. It’s all the buildups and in-betweens that he can’t deal with.

They’re only at the Sorrento villa for a few more days. It’s unclear how things will change when they’re back in Denmark. It’s not going to revert to how it was before – that’s clear. This isn’t the sort of family fight that you just bounce back from. Still, getting out of Sorrento can only be a good thing. It’s a big villa, but there’s still an uncomfortable proximity. Horatio’s starting to look forward to being in his own room again. It’ll be good for Hamlet, too, to be in his own space.

There’s a beach bonfire on the last night. The king, queen and other adults have already departed, but weirdly it helps. With just the young people, there’s a definite need to blow off steam after such an emotionally charged holiday.

Horatio spends most of the afternoon building the bonfire with Ophelia. Hamlet’s in town getting drinks with Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern is sorting out their sound system. Laertes isn’t around, but has promised to make an appearance later. Horatio gets the feeling that he might be their friend by the end of the evening. It’s a weird thought, but then way weirder things have happened in the past week alone.

Ophelia’s remarkably strong for her size, hauling pieces of driftwood onto the pile. She’s wearing a sleeveless top, revealing flower tattoos covering her biceps.

‘I can see why Hamlet liked you,’ Horatio says, dragging stones into a circle to work as a fireplace. ‘You’ve got the emo aesthetic down.’

‘At least I know it’s not 2007,’ she says. ‘I keep telling him to cut that ridiculous fringe.’

‘I don’t know. It’s kind of endearing.’

‘He’s the only member of a European royal family to consistently place in the Not category of Hot Or Not magazines.’

‘Didn’t take you for the type of person who reads those.’

‘I’m not. Laertes is always leaving them in the bathroom.’

At Horatio’s raised eyebrow, she shrugs.

‘I’m not the only gay disaster in my family.’

It makes sense that Laertes is gay, even if it’s not something he’s ever mentioned. Come to think of it, Horatio really should have noticed sooner.

‘That makes Guildenstern and Rosencrantz our token hets,’ he says.

Ophelia laughs. ‘Yeah, that works. How’s Hamlet doing, by the way? I haven’t seen much of him these past couple days.’

‘Okay, I think. It’s been hard on him, obviously, but so far he’s managed to generally keep his head.’

‘That’s good. It’ll have helped, you being there.’

‘I hope so. I’ve been trying, but there’s only so much I can do, you know?’

She pauses, to brush her hair out of her face. With the help of the wind, her hair is steadily escaping its ponytail and going everywhere. It was probably blue once, but now it’s gone a pale sea green.

‘I think you mean more to him than you realise,’ she says.

‘We’ve been best friends for years,’ Horatio says, unsure where she’s going with this. ‘I’ve seen most of his crises.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’ Giving up, she takes the hair band out and gathers her hair into a bun instead. ‘He actually listens when you talk. I don’t know that he does that with anyone else.’

‘That’s not true. You and him have been close.’

‘It’s more complicated than that. It always is when you’re friends with your exes, even if you’re not into each other or weren’t ever, really.’

‘As exes go, you guys seem to be handling it well.’

She shrugs. ‘It is what it is. But seriously. Hamlet cares about you a lot.’

‘Right.’ And then, because he’s not been able to stop thinking about it, Horatio blurts out, ‘He kissed me.’

Ophelia nearly drops the stone she’s holding. ‘What?’

Now the floodgates have opened, he can’t stop talking. ‘Last week, when it was all going down. He was upset and I was there … he apologised, afterwards. It was still kind of shitty of him, though.’

She frowns. ‘Wait, I don’t follow. Shitty because you don’t reciprocate? Or what?’

‘He only did it because I convenient. It’s fine, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

‘Horatio,’ Ophelia says, very slowly. ‘I think you should talk to him about this.’

‘We already did. He said sorry, it’s cool.’

‘But you have feelings for him,’ she says, like it’s this revelation.

‘Yeah, but it doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh my god. You _have_ to talk to him.’

‘No. No way. It’s going to fuck up our friendship.’

‘Is it, though? You’re not exactly poster kids for toxic masculinity. You’re going to deal.’

‘That’s not the point.’ Fireplace done, he steps back. ‘I don’t see why we have to go there.’

‘If there’s one thing you should take away from this holiday, it’s that communication is good.’ She wipes off her hands on her shorts. ‘If you speak to him, I’ll volunteer to listen to Guildenstern’s mixtape and he’ll stop bugging you.’

He can’t deny that’s a good offer. And as much as he never wants to speak about his feelings ever, she might have a point about the whole communication thing. She’s a lot more perceptive than he gave her credit for.

‘All right,’ he says. ‘But if this blows up in my face, I’m blaming you.’

‘Oh, be my guest. D’you think it’s time to set up the barbecue yet?’

 

He doesn’t get a chance to speak to Hamlet before the party, but once they’ve lit the bonfire does his best to put it out of his head. They can always talk on the plane tomorrow; they’ll be stuck together for a couple of hours. Right now all he needs to focus on is getting drunk and making sure nobody knocks the barbecue over.

Guildenstern couldn’t get the sound system to work, but it works out fine without music. They’ve got food, beer pong and the unexpected entertainment of Rosencrantz setting himself on fire. He’d been standing a bit too close to the bonfire when a spark caught his trousers, sending him shrieking into the sea.

The tone takes a downward turn halfway through the evening, when Hamlet gets a call from his mother. He goes off into one of the small caves to answer. No one else seems particularly concerned, but when Hamlet doesn’t re-emerge after ten minutes Horatio goes looking for him.

He hasn’t been in the caves before, so it takes him a while to find Hamlet. Some of the caverns are really quite big, and there’s just enough light for him to be able to see. He finds Hamlet sitting on one of the rocks, composing a text.

‘Hey,’ Horatio says. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Yeah. My mum was letting me know about the press.’

‘Shit, is it getting exposed?’

‘No, that’s what she was saying. So far everything’s still under wraps. My dad’s still angry, but he doesn’t want to cause a scene.’

‘I didn’t realise they’d be mobile coverage in here.’ He looks up at the cave ceiling, and then back to Hamlet. ‘So are they staying together?’

Hamlet shrugs. ‘I guess? I don’t know if that’s good for them, but at least they’ve been talking.’

‘Speaking of talking, there’s uh, something I’ve been meaning to say.’ He’s suddenly feeling very, very sick at the idea of having this conversation, but if he doesn’t get it out now he never well. ‘I was chatting to Ophelia earlier, and uh, she said I should talk to you.’

‘Okay,’ Hamlet seems nonplussed. ‘Isn’t that what you’re doing right now.’

‘No. About me. And how I feel. She’s right, I guess. I should be honest with you.’

Hamlet gets off the rock. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve got feelings for you. I think I always have, I just never mentioned it ‘cause it was going to make things awkward. It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything or do anything. But with all the shit that’s been going down it makes sense that you should know. So that there isn’t anything else I’m keeping from you.’

Hamlet seems to have frozen.

‘Are you okay?’ Horatio asks. Regret is hitting him hard. He should have waited before dropping this on Hamlet. There’s only so much a guy can deal with at once.

‘Yeah, I – ’ Hamlet makes a strangled noise, and looks at the floor. ‘Were you ever going to tell me?’

‘Probably not? It’s pretty clear you don’t feel the same way, so…’

Hamlet stares at him. ‘That’s not true.’

‘What?’ He can’t have heard that right. Hamlet can’t mean … _that._

‘Fucking hell, Horatio, why d’you think I kissed you? That’s why I apologised so much. It wasn’t your job to deal with my feelings.’

The queasiness has gone from Horatio’s stomach, replaced by a feeling of unreality. None of what Hamlet is saying is real. They are not really standing here, in this cave. He’s probably going to wake up any minute and discover he passed out on the beach. All of this will be some kind of bizarre fever dream.

‘What are you saying?’ he manages.

Hamlet huffs, and in lieu of answering pulls him into a kiss.

It’s a better kiss than their first one. They’re not entirely sober, but neither of them is emotionally distraught. Horatio’s surprised for the first five seconds and then relaxes into it, pulling Hamlet close and wrapping his hands around him. Hamlet is warm and insistent and Horatio’s body is enjoying this a _lot_.

Eventually, he pulls away. ‘I swear to fucking god, if you’ve been pining - ’

Hamlet looks sheepish. ‘I didn’t wanna ruin the friendship.’

‘We’re like useless lesbians or something.’ Still dazed, Horatio kisses Hamlet again. He’s still giddy that this is something he can do. Hamlet likes him. _Hamlet. Likes. Him._

Ophelia must have known. God, he really owes her.

After another five minutes of kissing, Horatio has the strength of will to stop.

‘As much as I like this, we should probably rejoin the others before they think we’re dead.’

‘Right. Yeah.’ Hamlet’s adorably flushed. He looks happier than Horatio’s seen him in a long time.

They emerge from the cave to find that the sun has set. Somebody’s had the bright idea of putting all the remaining wood on the bonfire, so the blaze has doubled in size. Laertes and Guildenstern are absorbed in a game of beer pong, but Ophelia notices their return.

‘You guys all right?’ she says, in a tone that makes it very obvious she knows what they’ve been doing.

‘Fine thanks,’ Horatio says, deliberately nonchalant.

‘Hey, Hamlet,’ she smiles. ‘What’s up with your hair?’

Hamlet instinctively raises a hand to his fringe, which, after all the making out, is more than a little tousled. ‘Uh…’

With a wicked grin, Ophelia turns and strolls down to watch the beer pong.

‘She definitely knows,’ Hamlet says.

‘Well, yeah. She was the one who told me to talk to you.’

Hamlet shakes his head. ‘How is my ex giving my best friend relationship advice about me not the weirdest thing that’s happened this holiday?’

‘Relationship advice?’ Horatio nudges him. ‘Does that mean we’re dating?’

‘Don’t let it go to your head.’

‘Not at all. Though, you know, if we stay together I could be dating a king.’

Hamlet smiles, the soft kind of smile he doesn’t have that often. ‘You’ve just been using me to get to power. I see how it is.’

‘Hey, you said it, not me. Oh, and did you know Laertes is gay?’

‘…Yes? Didn’t you?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘You’re really not as observant as you think you are.’

Horatio leans into him in the shoulder. ‘Look who’s talking.’

 


End file.
